Patrick forced himself not to laugh; why was it so much fun to exasperate her? “I’m doing A Chorus Line, Cassie. I’m quoting your show.”
The frustrated clacking of a keyboard as Cassie continued undeterred. “I’ll see you in Los Angeles. Do I need to come get you? Escort you into the meeting? They want to see you on Monday. Can I trust you to be there?”
“Los Angeles,” Patrick uttered, confused. “You said New York.”
“The meeting’s in Los Angeles. The show’s in New York.”
Patrick paused. He supposed that made sense. All the development people were in LA. “What are you doing? What’s all that typing?”
“I’m emailing my assistant to get me a copy of that damn musical.”
Patrick promised his agent he would dazzle; the last thing he did before he fell asleep on the couch was book a flight to LA.
* * *
On Saturday Patrick walked his bicycle around the block to JED’s house. As he approached the front door Lorna started to bark. There were no cars in the driveway. Just as well. He’d decided to stay in LA for a time, and had more than his fill of goodbyes. He placed the bike across their front door, popped the kickstand down, and fished a note out of his pocket. Gifting his neighbor a bicycle had been on his mind since John had confessed at the start of the summer that the theft of his own bike had marked the end of his childhood. （If only the kids’ bikes would suit Eduardo and Dwayne, he could have left a gift for all three.） Patrick didn’t see much use for it anymore; in fact, depending on how things went in LA, he could see himself calling JED in a few week’s time, offering them first dibs on more of his belongings. But one thing at a time. It was dangerous to put the basket before the bicycle.
Patrick tucked his note in the tire’s front spokes. It read: For John. A childhood should never be over.
It surprised Patrick, their friendship, the deep affection he felt for John. For all three of them, really. He smiled, happy that life could still surprise. Maybe there were still a few good ones out there for him yet. He placed his palm on their front door as a gentle adieu, then walked to the corner to call a Lyft to the bank to withdraw money for Rosa. Advance her some salary to keep an eye on the place. He’d write her a note, too. Invite her family to use the pool whenever they liked.
Everything was happening so fast.
* * *
Marlene stuck her head out of the camel-colored leather pet carrier just as the plane picked up speed down the runway, lifting one eyebrow and then the other as if to say, What the actual f*@k? Patrick leaned down to comfort her; they were both in a slight diazepam haze. He’d read a magazine article once, soon after he booked his first show and it became clear that air travel would be part of his new life, about the best ways to combat a fear of flying. His wasn’t so much a fear of flying as a general anxiety about crashing, but still he remembered the article’s tips as if he’d read them yesterday. Not all of them were available to Marlene. Check the turbulence forecast. Familiarize yourself with airplane sounds. Talk to the flight attendants about any specific concerns. But one jumped out at him: hold a photograph of your destination. He reached for his phone in his pocket and opened his camera roll to a photo of Maisie and Grant wrapped in bright towels by his pool. He showed it to Marlene.
“We’re on our way,” he said. It was a roundabout journey, west before east, but this was the start of their new life. He took a good look at the kids himself before tucking his phone back in his pocket as the plane left the ground and rose upward into the sky.
THIRTY
“Patrick.” The man introduced himself as Scott LaBerge, and then went around the conference room saying words that may or may not have been names. Brant. Abner. Dottie. Basil. Sable. Kelsi. Quill. Patrick greeted each face, determined to forget these unfortunate names as quickly as he was assaulted with them. Were there assigned seats? There was a bottle of water in front of each chair, but no name cards; he waited to be told what to do.
It was downright cool in Los Angeles （at least in comparison to Palm Springs）。 Cassie had met him at LAX, dressed in an upgraded wardrobe that suited her new title, and spent the ride filling Patrick’s head with encouraging nonsense. They arrived at the studio lot early. She begged to accompany him to the meeting, but he assured her he worked best on his own; she said she’d eagerly wait for his call and left him with time to explore. He strolled past bungalows and soundstages and backlot sets, that one town square that’s stood in for many a whistle-stop, the alley with its urban flexibility, the White House portico （an unexpected sprout, even in a very fertile garden）， and the enormous tank you could flood for water scenes. Several faces looked familiar, a few people waved. A foursome on an electric golf cart pointed as they quietly whizzed by. It felt both familiar and strange, home and foreign. Patrick kept his hands in his pockets and made his best attempt to enjoy it; it was like trying on an old sweater to see if it still fit.